


We Are NOT Going to Cardiff

by gloria_scott



Series: Lestrade/Wallander Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Case Fic, Community: casestory, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wallander is visiting Lestrade in London for the first time since their unlikely friendship/relationship began. Lestrade's intention to have a quiet weekend of pub-going and football watching are dashed when Sherlock arrives and demands their help with a case he's working in Cardiff. Against Lestrade's better judgement, the pair find themselves on their way to Wales to investigate the curious case of a local politician accused of murdering his mistress. Will their fledgling relationship weather the strain of working together and the unpredictable tempest that is Sherlock Holmes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (1) A special shout-out and thanks to the lovely and talented sc_fossil, who created the art for this fic. Also, thanks a million to catchoo152 for the beta and my Brit-picking tag team, thesmallhobbit and aeron_lanart!
> 
> (2) This story is part of my The Man Who Never Smiled ‘verse, which is a bit of a mish-mash between BBC and book Wallander. It occurs between that story and Orange Chicken. Series-wise it takes place between S1-S2 of Sherlock, and between S2-S3 of Wallander.

This was probably a bad idea, Greg Lestrade thought as he set the phone receiver down. What with the budget meeting running long and the various minor fires he’d had to put out that morning and the incident reports from the Tolman case that still needed reviewing, he’d nearly forgotten he was expecting a visitor until the call came from downstairs.  Ah well, too late now so might as well hope for the best. Greg sighed and made his way down to the lobby.

The last time he and Inspector Kurt Wallander of the Ystad Police Department had been together, things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Greg had spent an odd weekend in Sweden just over a month before. Not exactly a disaster, but Greg preferred to avoid a repeat performance of all that awkwardness and tension if at all possible. Kurt wasn’t exactly comfortable with their…relationship, if that’s what you could call it, and the man could be morose at best and prickly and combative at worst when he was uncomfortable. So yeah, probably not the best idea to meet here at the Met. If Greg could have had his way he would have preferred to meet Kurt at the airport or, better yet, his own flat. But a D.I.’s work was never done, and he had things to take care of before he could clock out on his long weekend. At least Kurt would understand that.

Despite his misgivings, he warmed with a genuine smile when he saw Kurt looking a bit small and lost in the lobby, his visitor’s badge dangling from his jacket lapel and a small travel case trailing behind him. Kurt turned and his weary face brightened when Greg called to him.  They shook hands, and Greg made his apologies as they walked to the lift.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport. It’s just…well, you know how it is.”

“Of course, it was no trouble at all,” Kurt replied. “I’m actually glad to have the opportunity to see the famous Scotland Yard.”

“Oh! Would you like a bit of a tour then? I could arrange that.” Before Kurt even had a chance to respond, Greg was bounding out of the open lift doors and wrangling up a young detective sergeant to take him around. He relieved Kurt of his luggage and sent him off with a wave.

“Just have him bring you back ‘round to my office when you’re done.”

Greg hurried back to his office, ignoring Donovan’s quizzical look as he passed by her cubicle. He closed his office door and set Kurt’s bag next to it, then went to his desk and tried to concentrate on tackling his inbox (which he could swear had doubled in the last ten minutes) in spite of the minor jig his stomach was doing.

Kurt returned about forty-five minutes later, coffee in hand, and took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of Greg’s desk. He seemed quite relaxed and amiable, which allowed Greg to relax a bit himself – if Kurt wasn’t anxious around his work colleagues, there was no reason he should be.

“Right, there’s just a few things I need to wrap up here, then we can grab a late lunch. Unless you’re hungry now? I can send someone out to pick up  a sandwich or something for you?”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m fine. The coffee will tide me over.”

“Okay then, shouldn’t be too much longer,” Greg said and turned back to his computer. Before he could complete a single keystroke he caught a flash of raven hair and blue scarf out of the corner of his eye; they were coming his way and moving fast. Greg’s stomach clenched and he launched himself out of his chair towards the door. Not quick enough – Sherlock breezed past him and came to a stop in the middle of the office. Completely ignoring Kurt, he spun around to address Greg.

“I need you to go to Cardiff.”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, keeping his position near the door in the hope of escorting Sherlock back through it as soon as possible. “Now is really not a good time…”

“Oh, come on Lestrade,” Sherlock barked. “This one’s at least a seven, possibly an eight if my initial hypothesis is wrong, which is doubtful.”

“Well, what’s that to do with me?”

“I need your assistance.”

Greg refused to be moved. “Why not drag John along like you usually do?”

“He’s away. With Sasha, or Penny, or whoever the latest one is.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

Greg made a hypothesis of his own and narrowed his eyes. “They’re not in Cardiff, are they?”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “No.”

Greg sighed and shook his head. “Look Sherlock, we are not going to Cardiff,” he said, and winced when he’d realized that he’d said _we_.

“Why not?” Sherlock’s face gave no sign he’d noted the inclusive pronoun, but long experience told Greg that it was too much to hope that he hadn’t.

“I have other plans, obviously.”

“Well change them,” Sherlock countered.

“I’m not going to change them! The entire bloody universe doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

“An innocent man may be sent to prison and a murderer may go free. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

Greg glared at him and Sherlock took a step back, pausing as if to regroup. Greg could almost hear the gears whirring in Sherlock’s mind as he sought a leverage point to get his way. His gaze inevitably landed on Kurt, and in an instant he was stepping forward, hand outstretched.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest. My apologies for being so rude. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Kurt Wallander,” Kurt replied, shaking his hand.

Sherlock’s eyes darted quickly up one side of Kurt and down the other. “You’re a policeman…a detective,” he said. “Scandinavian accent. Swedish?”

“Yes.”

“Southern area…Skane?”

“Yes.”

“In town for the weekend,” Sherlock said, glancing at the bag by the door. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Lestrade stepped forward and interjected just as Kurt answered, “Pleasure.”

“A bit of both,” Kurt tried to save it with a shrug and a smile, but the almost imperceptible quirk of Sherlock’s upper lip made Greg uneasy.

“Sherlock, stop it!” Greg’s voice was almost pleading. “Kurt’s a friend of mine and is in town for the weekend, yes. And I offered to entertain him this evening – show him the sights of London and all that. I can’t just go running off with you.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock agreed. “That would be terribly rude of you, Lestrade.” Turning to Kurt with a smile, “Have you ever been to Cardiff, Inspector Wallander?”

“Can you tell us what is the case you are working on?” Kurt asked. Greg felt the situation slipping away from him. With a heavy sigh he shut the door of his office and sat back down at his desk. Sherlock smiled slyly and pulled up a chair.

“Douglas Majors, fifty-three, Conservative representative of the Lisvane ward on the Cardiff Council, accused of stabbing his mistress to death in a hotel room three months ago. No sign of forced entry. His DNA and her blood were on the knife found at the scene.”

“Well, that all seems pretty straightforward,” Kurt said.

“Ah, but this is where it gets interesting,” Sherlock preened. “Mr Majors maintains that he couldn’t have done it, as he was tied up at the time. Quite literally.” Sherlock drew out his mobile and tapped at it a few times, then passed it to Kurt, who donned his glasses to look at the small screen. His brow furrowed as he studied the image for a moment before he passed it along. Greg reluctantly accepted it, and was met with the image of a middle-aged man lying naked on a bed, blindfolded and elaborately bound in rope.

“Are there no other suspects?” Kurt asked, taking the mobile back and glancing at it again before returning it to Sherlock.

“The wife and the councillor’s  aide, but the local police maintain that their alibis check out.”

Kurt took off his glasses and tucked them back into his breast pocket. “You have your doubts?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed his ascent and nodded slightly.

“Can’t this wait until next week?” Greg feebly tried to put off the inevitable, but he could see Kurt’s interest had been piqued.

“No, the trial is set to begin Monday,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t know why they waited this long to call on me. Blame the defence’s foot-dragging for the compressed timeline.”

“Perhaps he could have done it if he’d had an accomplice?” Kurt suggested.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. How he managed to sound both noncommittal and encouraging, Greg didn’t know.

“Or someone who knew about his rendezvous…a jealous wife, or political rival? Have you interviewed the wife yet?” Kurt continued.

“No, not yet. That’s why I need your assistance – multiple threads to unravel and not a lot of time to unravel them. What do you say, Inspector? I promise we can have this wrapped up by tomorrow evening with your help, and you’ll still have time for some R&R. I hear Cardiff is lovely this time of year.”

Kurt looked at Greg, and he shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose if you want to go, I won’t object.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed. There’s a train leaving Paddington Station at 5:15 – that gives you plenty of time to grab a bite to eat and pack.” Sherlock was already up and moving towards the door. “I’ll collect you at Cardiff station.”

Rooms always seemed quieter when Sherlock left them. Well, perhaps not so much ‘quieter’ as more still – like a stick stirring up the waters into a turbulent whirlpool had suddenly been removed.

Greg heaved a sigh and then turned back to his computer screen.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Kurt asked after a few moments.

“Why should I mind?” Greg replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice and mostly succeeding. “But you really have no idea what you’ve just signed us up for.”

*******

They arrived at Paddington Station a little before five, and Greg insisted they splurge on the first-class carriage. He said he’d make Sherlock pay for it, and Kurt suspected he meant something more than simply being reimbursed for expenses.

They’d wound up having a very late lunch indeed, as Greg had been interrupted several more times with pressing administrative matters that simply couldn’t wait. He was sullen and quiet throughout their meal of pub burgers and chips. Kurt struggled to keep some semblance of conversation going, unable to elicit even a hint of that charming grin and warm laughter that usually came so easily to Greg.

Afterwards they took a taxi back to Greg’s place – a modest one-bedroom second floor flat. Kurt’s investigator’s eye couldn’t help but pick up the tell-tale signs of a busy bachelor: kitchen bin overflowing with take-away containers, a basket full of laundry on the sofa, rugs in some need of hoovering.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Greg said, tossing his keys onto a small table near the door. “I’ll just need to pack a bag – won’t be a mo.”

Kurt took a seat on the sofa and Greg followed after him, muttering an apology before grabbing the laundry basket and disappearing with it into the bedroom. Kurt could hear him opening and closing drawers and wardrobe doors a little more emphatically than was strictly necessary as he packed. 

They hadn’t spoken much in the taxi on the way to the station, and the silence between them followed them onto the train and pressed on as the cityscape gave way to suburbs, and finally the English countryside.

Perhaps this was a bad idea, Kurt thought. He may have made a mistake following Sherlock’s lead, but to be honest he was relieved by the diversion. As much as he’d been looking forward to seeing Greg again, he was anxious about how it might go. What did they really know about each other, anyway? What if they didn’t get along after all and he was stuck in a strange city for nearly four days?  At least looking into this case would give them something to do – something that was familiar to them both, even if it was technically work during their holiday time. At least it took the pressure off of him to be entertaining, which had never been his strong suit.

After thirty minutes of staring out the window and listening to Greg flipping through the pages of a magazine he had picked up at the station, Kurt decided to play the peace-maker.

“He isn’t quite how I pictured him,” he said.

“Who?” Greg responded without looking up from his magazine.

“Sherlock Holmes. The way you had described him, I was expecting some sort of manic space alien or something.”

“Oh I don’t know. I reckon that’s a pretty accurate picture.”

“He seemed perfectly charming to me.”

Greg looked up then and fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Well of course he did, he wanted something from you. He’ll charm the tits off you if charming suits his purpose. He was looking for leverage to move me, so he used you.”

Kurt felt his hackles rise at Greg’s tone and the implication that perhaps he had been duped. Determined not to pick a fight, he let go of his annoyance as best he could and kept his voice neutral. “He is very observant. I’m curious to see him work. You obviously think very highly of him. You said yourself he’s been invaluable to you on any number of occasions.”

Greg closed the magazine and set it aside. “Yeah, I’ll be the first to admit he’s a bloody genius. But all that comes with a price. Just wait – you’ll see what I mean soon enough. A little dose of Sherlock goes a long way. I’ll be buggered if you’re not ready to strangle him by this time tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. You know him best,” Kurt conceded.

“Yeah, I suppose” Greg muttered, facing forward again and leaning back in his seat.

Kurt turned and looked out the window at fields and hedgerows that were a deep, muted green in the late afternoon light of an overcast sky. He searched for something more to say, but when he looked over at Greg again, his eyes were closed, inviting no further conversation. Kurt’s gaze fell upon the jacket that he had draped across the armrest between them, and a thought occurred to him that made his heart beat faster. But what would it matter here? None of the other people on the train knew them, or were paying them any attention. He hesitated a moment, then slipped his hand beneath the jacket until the backs of his fingers brushed against Greg’s thigh.

“I’m sorry for dragging you out of London. I hope I haven’t ruined your weekend,” he said.

Greg glanced down, then met Kurt’s eyes. He shrugged and gave a slight smile. “Nah, it’s not like I had anything actually planned.” He slid his open hand under the jacket and rested it on his thigh. Kurt’s fingers began stroking the inside of his palm.

“Just, you know,” Greg continued after a pause, “thought maybe I’d take you around to the major sights, or catch a West End matinee. Mostly I just thought we’d go down the pub and watch some football.”

“I don’t much care for football,” Kurt murmured, leaning closer so that their shoulders touched.

“Oh, then I don’t see how this could possibly work,” Greg replied, lowering his voice as well. Kurt trailed his fingers up the inside of Greg’s wrist, and watched as the pulse in Greg’s neck quickened.

“Don’t you?”

“Well, I suppose I could try to overlook it. But between that and your thing for opera, it could be very difficult – just warning you.”

“Hmm,” Kurt breathed, rubbing the back of Greg’s hand with his thumb. “How about I agree to tolerate your sport fetish if you agree to tolerate my lack of it.”

“Deal. I suppose it’s a good thing, then, us running all over Cardiff on a murder investigation we have no business getting involved in. At least it’s something we have in common.”

“Not your idea of fun, though?”

“No, it’s my idea of work. And I won’t even be getting paid for it.”

“We’ll just have to be sure to make time for other things, then.” Kurt’s hand left Greg’s wrist and made its way between his thighs. Greg inhaled sharply and looked at Kurt with a broad grin.

“I’ll hold you to that, Inspector.”

Kurt laughed and pulled his hand back. He laced his fingers together with Greg’s and didn’t let go until the train pulled into Cardiff Station.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was there waiting for them when they arrived at Cardiff Central just after half seven. Engrossed with sending a text message, he simply turned on his heel without a word of welcome and walked to the car park, leaving the two men to trail behind him. Greg was surprised when they walked past the queue of taxis waiting to take travellers to their final destination, and instead approached a silver rental car. Sherlock dug into his pocket for a key fob, which he then tossed to Greg.

“You drive,” he said and then got into the front passenger seat. Greg put his and Kurt’s bags in the boot, and then got into the car.

“I hope you didn’t bring us all the way out here just to be your bloody chauffeurs.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he just tapped away at his mobile.

“You’ll at least need to tell me where the hell I need to go.” Greg’s temper was getting the best of him again. That rarely took long around Sherlock.

“Right out of the car park, keep going until I tell you otherwise.”

Even though seemingly distracted by the texting, he continued to give Greg directions. Soon they were on a road heading north out of the centre of town. Sherlock tucked his mobile into his pocket, then turned and draped his arm over the headrest so he could address Greg as well as Kurt, who was sitting behind him.

“I took the liberty of ordering take-away,” he indicated several bags on the back seat, from which the aroma of kebab emanated.

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You never eat on a case!”

“It isn’t for me. It’s just that there’s no telling how long this might take. Unless you ate on the train?”

“How long what might take? You haven’t even told us where we’re going,” Greg countered.

“We need to do a little surveillance on the aide’s house. I think he’s the key to the whole case.”

“How so?” Kurt inquired before Greg had the chance to.

“Well, he’s a liar for starters. Although most people are, so that doesn’t prove his involvement.”

“You’ve spoken to him, then?” Greg asked.

“This afternoon. I took an earlier train and caught him leaving his office. On his way out of town for the weekend, apparently, which is extremely fortunate for us.”

“If he’s not even going to be there, what exactly are we surveilling for?” Greg snapped.

 “Dogs.”

“What?”

“He has dogs.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Greg felt the pressure building in his head and knew he was on the brink of a major blow up. Since he had no intention of treating Kurt to a show of his spectacular temper, he opted to quietly seethe instead.

After about twenty minutes they entered an affluent suburb and Sherlock directed him to pull up across the road from a small house at the end of a pleasant, tree-lined road. Greg killed the engine and they commenced waiting. The shadows of the trees deepened as night fell around them, and the early summer air that blew through the open windows was warm and fragrant. Kurt and Greg tucked in to the take-away after about half an hour, to alleviate boredom as much as hunger. Sherlock merely watched them eat, filling them in a bit more on the aide: William Smart, thirty-five, unmarried, formerly served as a Captain in the Royal Marines. He had left the service under the blot of a minor scandal involving a subordinate officer, but had easily landed on his feet again because he had a knack for knowing the right people. Those people included Majors whom he had served under, as well as several higher-ups in both the Cardiff police and the London Met.

“So you’re thinking they might not have looked closely enough at him for this?” Greg asked.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied.

They waited around in silence for some time, and by nine Greg’s eyelids were getting heavy; he would have killed for a cup of coffee. He was startled into wakefulness by Sherlock suddenly sitting bolt upright. There was movement outside the house.

“Right,” Sherlock said opening the door. “I’ll make my own way back.”

“Sherlock, wait! Shouldn’t we stick around to…to back you up or something?” Greg called after him.

Sherlock had already got out and closed the door. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lestrade, but there is no danger. Oh,” he added, turning around and sticking his head back into the car. “You’re already checked into the St David’s. There were only two rooms available; you don’t mind sharing, do you?” Then he was gone, not waiting for an answer.

Kurt got into the front seat without a word. Greg waited until he could no longer see Sherlock’s dark shape as it melted into the shadows of a tree across the way. He started the engine and slowly pulled the car away, hoping he could remember the way they had come. On a hunch, he turned on the car’s GPS system and pressed Favourites. The St David’s Hotel was the only route listed. His suspicion gnawed at him again. Sherlock was certainly being thoughtful – what the hell was he playing at? He tried to piece it together, figure out Sherlock’s motives for all of this, but he was as confounded as ever. Sod it, he thought, and reached over to turn the radio on. Kurt’s voice stopped him.

“Did you tell him about us?” he demanded.

“No, of course not!” Greg’s angry response was as much to the accusatory tone as to the question itself. He understood the concern and he was on edge about it himself. “As if I needed to. He’s probably read it in your shirt cuffs, or my haircut. Same as he must have read you’re diabetic – which explains the food.” The connection he’d been searching for came as he said it. “I’d wager he’s never once in his life done something considerate without some ulterior agenda. He wasn’t being thoughtful; you’ll just be no use to him if you can’t function.”

“I know you said he’s clever, but that seems a bit far-fetched to me,” Kurt replied, far from assuaged. “And how do you know I’m diabetic?”

“Please,” Greg snorted. “Sherlock’s not the only observant one. How much do you think you can hide from me? And why would you want to hide something like that, anyway?”

“It’s a private matter.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude,” Greg’s mocking tone earned him a glare from Kurt which he caught out of the corner of his eye. He continued more lightly. “But it is useful information to have. If you were to pass out or something, it’d be nice to know what was happening.”

“I’m not going to pass out!” Kurt exclaimed. “Look, can we just drop it?”

“Fine.”

The silence that settled between them weighed heavily on Greg.  He was sorry he had let his temper get away from him, and he’d be damned if he let Sherlock ruin this weekend for them. Searching his mind for something, anything, to appease and smooth things over, he finally blurted out, “My cholesterol’s high.”

“What?”

“My LDL cholesterol – you know, the bad one. High enough to have to take pills for it.”

“Oh.”

“Runs in the family…heart disease.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” Kurt snapped.

“Well, it’s a private matter, too,” Greg offered as explanation. “Now we’re even, yeah?”

Glancing over, he could see the hard line of Kurt’s jaw relax and his brow unfurrow.

“Yeah, we’re even,” Kurt agreed. “But you didn’t need to tell me. I would have gone through your kit later and found the pills.”

Greg laughed. “I’d have expected nothing less from Ystad’s finest. Want to grab a coffee?”

“God, yes,” Kurt said. “It’s been a long day.”

“And not over yet,” Greg muttered.

***

The St David’s was a sleek, ultramodern hotel right on the waterfront in Cardiff Bay. They left the car with the valet and entered the reception area – a stark white space of gleaming steel and glass.  Greg approached the clerk at the desk while Kurt hung back a few paces with their luggage.

“I’m already checked in – just need the key to my room, please.”

“Name?”

“Lestrade.”

“One moment.”

The clerk paused, then “Will you be needing one key card or two?” he asked.

Greg glanced at Kurt, who looked up and then away. “Ehm, better make it two.”

The clerk placed two plastic cards on the desk and Lestrade grabbed them up. “Er, what was the room number again?”

“Five seventeen.”

“Ta.”

They popped into the hotel bar for coffee, then made their way up to the room. Once inside, Kurt headed straight for the toilet while Greg took a look around the room. It was small but still fairly posh, with honey wood accents, crisp bedding in muted brown tones, and a balcony overlooking a fantastic view of the bay. A thick manila file folder was set at the foot of the bed – the case files so thoughtfully provided them by Sherlock.

He set his coffee on the bedside table, then hoisted his bag onto the bed and pulled out his shaving and toiletries kit. As soon as Kurt came out of the loo he headed in for a piss and a splash of cold water to the face to help wake himself up. When he returned, Kurt had already stripped down to his boxers and was lounging on the bed amongst several piles of paper, glasses perched on the end of his nose, coffee in hand, leafing through the files.

“Looks like you’ve gone and made yourself comfortable,” Greg said.

Kurt peered at him over the rims of his glasses, then turned his attention back to the papers in his hand.

“Everything they’ve got on this guy is circumstantial. And they don’t seem to have entertained the possibility of other suspects to any satisfactory degree,” he said as Greg hopped on one foot trying to free himself from his trouser leg.

“You know, we don’t really have to review the case file tonight, just because Sherlock was so kind to leave it for us,” Greg replied as he clambered into the bed next to Kurt, heedless of the papers strewn about around him. Tired as he was, he more than half hoped Kurt would make good on the promise he’d made on the train. But Kurt just hmm’d in response, his attention captured entirely by the case. Greg heaved a resigned sigh and picked up his coffee, then made a cursory search through the papers and grabbed what looked to be the first responding officer’s report. He scanned the first page detailing the time of the 999 call and the dispatching of officers to the crime scene.

“Hang on, did you see this?” he said, tapping Kurt on the arm. “The murder was committed right here, in this hotel.”

Kurt just nodded. “In a suite on one of the upper floors, yes.”

“Funny Sherlock didn’t mention that.” Greg flipped through the pages until he found the photos of Douglas Majors that were taken before the police had cut him free.

“Honestly, I don’t see how he could have delivered a kill blow like that all tied up,” he said.

“His hands were in front of him, and remember he’s former military. It was a targeted blow – whoever did it knew what they were aiming for,” Kurt replied.

“Sure, but he’d have no range of motion. I just don’t see how it’s possible, even if he’d had ninja training.” Greg paused in thought, trying to work out the alternative scenarios. “Somebody else must have been in the room. Either they killed her, or they cut him loose, he killed her, and tied him back up again.”

“That’s a bit convoluted, don’t you think?” Kurt countered. “Perhaps he wasn’t tied up to begin with. He met her, perhaps they argued, he killed her and panicked. Perhaps he called someone who came and helped him cover it up. Maybe that person tied him up.”

Greg glanced through the report and shook his head. “No, there weren’t any calls outgoing or incoming on his mobile, or the room phone. And not just anyone could tie a rig like that – that sort of thing takes practice.”

“And you know this how?” Kurt teased.

Greg grinned and felt his cheeks flush a bit. “Not first hand, don’t you get any ideas. But look at it! You’d need to know a fair bit about knots to pull that off.”

“I think we need to talk to Majors,” Kurt said, “find out more about this little tryst. And have a talk with his wife as well. Her alibi isn’t exactly rock solid. She and her daughter claimed to be at home together that night, but family members often lie for one other.”

They spent the next few hours rifling through pages of notes, photos, and reports. Every so often they would trade bits of information or theories, but mostly they combed through the file in silence, each relying on their own idiosyncratic method of absorbing and making sense of the senseless they’d developed over the years. Eventually, Greg gave a great yawn and rubbed at his sore and tired eyes. The alarm clock read 12:17 am. He thought to ask Kurt if he were ready to call it a night, but when he looked over at him Kurt’s eyes were already closed and he was breathing softly and steadily. Greg gingerly removed his reading glasses and took the empty coffee cup from his hand and put them on the bedside table, then gathered up the papers, stuffed them back into the folder, and set them aside as well. He pulled the coverlet up over Kurt, then shut the light and rolled over, and was soon asleep himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt woke with the early morning light in his eyes and Greg’s arm slung heavily across his chest. He carefully extricated himself so he could go about his usual morning routine, enjoying the quiet of the hour broken only by the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls drifting in from the open balcony door. By the time Greg woke up, Kurt had already showered and dressed and was quietly puttering about the room, unpacking his small travel case and staking claim to the right side of the wardrobe.

Greg gave a great yawn and rubbed a hand over his face. “Early riser, even on holiday, eh?” he said.

Kurt shrugged. “Creature of habit.”

When he was done putting his things away and Greg showed no sign of budging from the bed, Kurt climbed in next to him again.

“Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

Greg smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “In a bit.”

They had done this before of course, but Kurt’s responses always caught him off guard. The immediate intensity, the need – it was too much and not enough all at once. It overwhelmed him at first, and he could only lie there while Greg’s tongue traced the curve of his neck and the line of his jaw, wanting it to continue and fighting against the impulse to stop it. He didn’t want to stop it, not really – his rapid breathing and the increasing hardness in his trousers put the lie to that – but the vague thought that he _should_ want to stop it plagued him and froze his limbs as solid as unlagged pipes in January. How long could he remain motionless and unresponsive before Greg got discouraged – or worse, offended? He really ought to do something, but the most he could manage was to reach up and run his trembling fingers through Greg’s hair.

Apparently it was enough of an invitation. Greg rolled completely on top of him and kissed him on the mouth – a warm welcome that melted Kurt’s inhibition – and he finally reciprocated. They kissed like teenagers in the back seat of their parents’ borrowed car, hands tugging at shirt-tails to get at skin and venturing further down to caress and squeeze buttocks. Greg slipped one leg between Kurt’s and ground his hips, pressing their still-clad arousals together. Kurt rose to meet him, until they both were rocking back and forth in a slow wave of rhythm that crescendoed quietly and then peaked without release.  

Greg dropped his head down and nestled into the curve where Kurt’s neck and shoulder met. They lay still together, until their breathing evened out and the rumbling of Kurt’s stomach called them to breakfast.

***

At half eight they headed off to an outdoor café on a broad quay overlooking the water. The sun was out, and the gentle wind blowing in from over Cardiff Bay kept the temperature warm but pleasant. They were nearly done with their breakfast and each on their second cup of coffee when Sherlock breezed in and pulled up a chair. Kurt waited for Greg to make some acknowledgment of him, to ask about what he had been up to the night before, but Greg only spared him a brief glance before fixing his eyes on some point in the distance out over the bay, saying nothing.

The silence quickly became irritating enough for Kurt to finally break it. “How did it go last night?”

“As I said, the aide is a liar,” Sherlock replied, seemingly unperturbed by Greg’s cold shoulder treatment. “His alibi doesn’t hold up. The local police are idiots.”

“Why’s his alibi blown?”

“He has dogs.”

“Yes, we’re up to speed as far as there,” Kurt said patiently. “What does having dogs mean?”

Their waitress approached and Sherlock waved away her offer of tea or coffee and a menu. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “He claimed to be home at the time of the murder. His alarm system registered an authorized entry at 9:23 p.m., right around the time of the murder, but he lied about being the only one with the code.”

“Ah, the dog walker,” Kurt made the connection.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, leaning back again with a slight smile.

“That’s who you ambushed last night, then, is it?” Greg finally broke his silence. “You didn’t traumatize them too badly, did you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “She’ll live.”

“He may not have been home, but that doesn’t place him at the hotel,” Greg said, an air of combativeness tinging his voice.

“And does he have a motive?” Kurt quickly followed up, hoping to defuse the tension Greg seemed set on instigating.

“None that I can see…yet.” Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and turned his piercing eyes on Kurt. “I think it’s time we had a chat with Majors and his wife, don’t you, Inspector?”

Before Kurt could answer, Sherlock was out of his seat and walking briskly away. Greg rolled his eyes and tossed his napkin onto the empty plate in front of him, then got up to pay the bill. Kurt took one more hurried gulp of his coffee before following Sherlock back towards their hotel.

***

Sherlock had Greg drive again, but allowed Kurt the front passenger seat without comment. They drove into Adamsdown, a much rougher part of town judging by the shabby brick buildings – some burned out and abandoned – and the clusters of equally shabby youths hanging about on street corners. Sherlock directed Greg to pull up outside the car park across from what Kurt assumed to be Cardiff prison. Over the drab wall topped with razor wire, he could see the pitched roofs and the iron-barred upper level windows of the buildings that made up the prison.

“I guess we’re having a go at Majors first, then?” Greg said.

“Not you. It’ll be more efficient if we split up,” Sherlock said as he ducked out of the car. “I’ve just sent you a list of supplies we’ll need for later. Have them all on hand by the time we return. I expect we shouldn’t be back much later than one or two.” He paused and looked at Kurt. “Are you coming, Inspector Wallander?”

Kurt was initially disappointed when he thought Sherlock meant to leave them out of the interviews altogether. And although he was pleased to be asked to join Sherlock, guilt tugged at him and made him hesitate. He turned to look at Greg, who only looked away and shrugged his shoulders.

“Suit yourself.”

That was all the permission Kurt needed. He got out and Greg turned the car around and headed back into town. Sherlock had already entered the car park and Kurt had to jog to catch him up.

“Why are we…?” Kurt began, but Sherlock merely pointed to a sleek, black jaguar parked on the first level. A man of about forty emerged from the car as they approached. He wore a dark blue suit, well-cut and expensive, and an air of shallow regard and a deep expense account – definitely a lawyer by the look of him.

“Mr Holmes, thank you for coming.” He looked inquisitively at Kurt. “Freddy Albright,” he said by way of introduction.

Kurt stepped forward to shake his hand. “Kurt Wallander. I’m… assisting with your case.”

“Of course, glad to have you aboard. You’re appointment is for half ten. It’s Saturday, so only personal visits are allowed. I’ll be waiting for you here.”

And charging Mr Majors a tidy hourly rate for it, Kurt thought wryly.

***

He and Sherlock made their way out of the car park and across the street to the main gate of the prison. Once inside they were subjected to the usual security process, and Kurt thought it wisest to show his driving license as identification as opposed to his warrant card. Eventually they were allowed into the visitor’s room – a starkly lit, cafeteria-looking place with orange plastic chairs and Formica tables that wobbled when you leaned on them. Here and there other prisoners sat chatting with friends and relatives, though the overall mood of the place was sombre and depressing.

They took a seat at an empty table, giving the other visitors as wide a berth as possible. Within a few minutes a guard approached escorting a man of about fifty. His salt and pepper hair was fastidiously brushed and his posture and general comportment spoke of good breeding but his eyes were hollow and framed by dark smudges, possibly due to a lack of sleep and an overabundance of worry.

“Ah, Majors!” Sherlock said, loudly and cheerfully. “It’s been far too long. You’re looking well, considering. You remember Kurt, of course.” Kurt suspected this was more for the retreating guard’s benefit and to keep up the pretence of a friendly visit. Majors gave Kurt a dubious look, but nodded at Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes. I’m so grateful to you for coming. I…”

Sherlock interrupted him with an annoyed shake of his head. “Let’s not waste what little time we have,” he said, now low and urgent. “Tell me all that you remember about that night.”

Majors took a deep breath. “Of course. But surely my solicitor’s given you the details?”

“Yes, but I want to hear them from you.”

“Very well.” Majors hesitated and shifted in his seat before beginning. “I had planned to meet Mistress…Ms Evans at half six that night for dinner. I was delayed by some meetings that had run over, and I phoned to let her know she should eat alone and that I would join her later at the hotel.”

“Did you often meet at that hotel?” Kurt asked.

“I wouldn’t say often, no,” Majors replied. “Ms Evans only came down from London every few weeks.”

“But it was always the same hotel?”

“Yes. Always the same suite, in fact. I had a standing reservation for the second Thursday of every month whether we used it or not.”

Kurt wished he had a pad and pencil to take notes, but he assumed Sherlock’s memory for details was far better than his own. “Go on,” he said.

“I arrived just before eight. I knew she wouldn’t be please with my tardiness, and that she’d likely take her displeasure out on me – which she did. As soon as she let me in she ordered me to strip and bring her favourite flogger to her.”

“Wait,” Kurt held up his hand. “She let you in? Didn’t you have a key?”

“Yes, but I was late. It didn’t seem right to just barge in on her. So I knelt at the door and waited for her to answer.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“When she opened the door, I crawled in and begged her forgiveness.”

Kurt had interviewed a lot of people in his time and had heard most everything. It didn’t take much effort for him to remain outwardly unfazed by what Majors said, but internally he couldn’t help but wonder what would possess anyone – let alone a powerful and successful man like Majors – to allow himself to be so humiliated. He glanced at Sherlock who sat silent beside him, eyes half closed. He gave no sign of anything, so Kurt pressed on.

“And did she forgive you?”

“No, not immediately. Well…it was a game, really. She wasn’t actually angry; it was just an excuse to punish me, of course.”

“I see. So what happened then?”

“Well, she had me bend over the bed and…”

Kurt held up his hand again. “Maybe we could skip forward to the point where you were tied up.”

Majors nodded. “Right. She tied me up – I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures – and teased and tortured me in…various ways. I was blindfolded and had ear plugs in to heighten the sensation through sensory deprivation. She had worked me pretty hard, and I was floating just on the edge of sub space.”

Kurt didn’t know what he meant by that, but he was reluctant to interrupt again so he made a mental note to clarify it later.

“At one point, I don’t know when, I’d lost all track of time by then, I do remember suddenly feeling cold. She had been close to me the whole time, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. Suddenly, it was just gone. I felt something warm and wet hit my arm, then she grabbed the chain that was attached to some clamps on my nipples  and yanked them off quite forcefully. She shoved me backwards onto the bed, and by then I was completely under. I wasn’t aware of anything else until I woke up the next morning to the maid screaming.”

“And you heard nothing? No sound of a struggle?” Kurt prompted.

“No, nothing at all.”

Kurt wondered what that could mean. If Majors were telling the truth, that would likely have been the time that the murder took place. If he didn’t do it himself, how did the killer subdue Ms Evans so quickly and silently? And who was it that removed the clamps from Majors? Why would a murderer intent on framing him be concerned about his comfort?

“There was a knife,” Kurt said.

“Yes,” Majors acknowledged. “She used it in our scene.”

He talked about it as if it were a play. Well, perhaps it was a performance of sorts. One that Kurt couldn’t quite see the point of, but to each their own.

“How did she use it,” he asked. “And why was your DNA on it?”

“It was right before I felt cold, actually. She had been running the blade over my skin, not cutting, just threatening. She made me suck on the handle.”

Kurt wanted to ask why she would do that, but it would only have served his morbid curiosity and not the case. He looked at Sherlock again.

“Anything you want to ask?”

Sherlock regarded Majors through his half-closed eyelids, looking interminably bored. “Were you quite alone with Ms Evans?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock must have seen or heard something in the response that totally escaped Kurt. His eyes shot open and he leaned forward with sudden interest. “Were you always alone with Ms Evans when you met up?”

Majors looked confused, coughing and spluttering a bit before finally responding that yes, of course they had always been alone.

Sherlock looked hard at him. “I must warn you that if you withhold vital information from me or lie to me, I will take the next train back to London and wash my hands of you and your case. Were you always alone?”

Majors flushed a deep red across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and he wrung his hands in agitation. When he finally spoke, his voice was a croaking whisper. “All right, yes, sometimes we were joined by a third. But not that night!”

“A third?” Sherlock said. “You mean a man?”

Both Majors and Kurt looked at him startled. Then Majors’ red face blanched white.

“I really don’t see…” he started.

“I can still catch the 11:50 back to Paddington if I leave now,” Sherlock said.

Majors shut his mouth tightly and gave a slight nod.

“His name,” Sherlock demanded.

“I really can’t…my career…” Majors objected.

“May already be over,” Sherlock countered.

Majors took a deep breath. “I assure you he had nothing to do with this. He wasn’t there! He was in Calais with his wife.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “I presume that you met him during your time in the Marines?”

Majors scowled as if offended by the suggestion. “No! He’s not a military man. He’s a dentist for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock rose, the legs of his chair screeching loudly over the lino. “That’ll do.” He turned and started walking towards the door.

“But you can’t just leave!” Majors called. He looked imploringly at Kurt, who tried to settle him down before the guards became too interested.

“We’re not leaving Cardiff,” Kurt assured him. “We’re going to speak with your wife. I’m sure your solicitor will have information to share with you Monday morning.”

Majors passed a hand over his eyes, clearly relieved. “Thank you,” he said.

Kurt hurried to follow after Sherlock. That seemed to be the pattern: Sherlock always miles ahead and leaving everyone else to trail after as fast as they could, which never seemed to be fast enough.


	4. Chapter 4

They met Freddy the well-dressed lawyer back in the car park and then set off to the Majors’ home to meet with the wife, Mrs Evelyn Majors; Evie to her friends,  though Kurt was sure the familiar moniker would be off limits to Sherlock and himself.

They left the depressing environs of the prison and Freddy drove them to a neighbourhood of pristine homes and well-manicured gardens in Lisvane. It was an amazing contrast of haves and have-nots, this pocket of affluence just twenty minutes’ drive from the dirty concrete and crumbling brick of Adamsdown.

They pulled up to a rather grand home on the corner of a quiet street. Freddy parked in the empty drive that arced around a half-circle of freshly mown grass edged with fragrant rose bushes. When they got to the front door, Freddy rang the bell.

A woman appeared at the door rather quickly, as if she had been waiting just inside for them. She was tall and slender, late forties, wearing a simple summer dress in a floral pattern. Although she lacked any outward ostentation, she smelled of privilege and money.

“Hullo, Evie. How are you holding up?” Freddy said, stepping forward and placing a kiss on her cheek.

“As well as can be expected, Freddy,” she answered with the sigh of a long-suffering wife.

“Of course. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his associate, Kurt Wallander.”

She looked at each of them with eyes nearly as weary as her husband’s had been, then smiled a polite but weak smile and invited them all inside.

They walked through the front hall and turned into the east wing of the house. Mrs Majors showed them into what looked to be a study or library of sorts. The walls were mostly lined with mahogany shelves full of leather-bound volumes. The empty spaces between the shelves were filled with framed maps of Cardiff and Wales. There was a desk at one end with several framed pictures, a blotter, and a rather expensive looking pen set on it. At the other end was a seating area consisting of a pair of dark leather overstuffed chairs and a matching sofa.

Kurt and Sherlock each took a seat on the sofa, while Freddy and Mrs Majors stationed themselves on the chairs. Cold drinks were laid ready on a small table next to Mrs Majors, and she served them up quite graciously. Kurt hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then, though it was getting on towards noon. He accepted the drink, gloomily wishing there was something more than a few biscuits offered to go along with it. Sherlock merely set his down on the low table in front of him and regarded Mrs Majors with a steely look.

“When did you first learn that your husband was having an affair?”

Kurt stopped mid-chew and looked at him, then at Mrs Majors. She clenched her jaw slightly, but seemed otherwise unruffled by Sherlock’s rather sudden shot across the bow.

“I would give you the standard line that I hadn’t known until Douglas’ arrest, and it had all come as a complete shock to me, but by your reputation I know you would see through that, Mr Holmes. I’ve known for some time – shortly after he’d started seeing that woman.” She lowered her gaze and raised her glass to her lips. “It was difficult for him to hide the marks,” she said in a low voice before taking a sip.

Although Sherlock had been amenable to letting Kurt take the lead questioning Majors, he was equally intent on dominating the interview with Mrs Majors. He fired off question after question, not really allowing Kurt a go at all. Was she aware of Ms Evans’ identity? Was her marriage over? Did they have a prenuptial agreement in place? Had her husband ever loved her, or did he just marry her for her money?

Mrs Majors kept her composure and answered politely, even though Sherlock’s tone made Kurt wince more than once. Suddenly he knew how his colleague, Anne-Britt must feel when he was less than polite during an interview, which was often. He finished his drink and succumbed to a sudden impulse to take a look around. The décor had a decidedly masculine feel to it, and he guessed this had been more her husband’s room than hers. He rose and wandered over to one of the bookshelves. Mrs Majors gave him a look, but Sherlock kept her occupied with another battery of questions.

The books were mostly law volumes with some historical monographs and political biographies mixed in.  He made his way over to the desk and stopped in his tracks. There were several framed photographs – family portraits by the look of them. They were turned to face the occupant of the desk, and so he couldn’t see their subjects from the sofa. The one that had caught his eye was of a young woman in her early twenties. She was pretty in a way that Mrs Majors probably had been when she was that age, and he guessed that she must be their daughter. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and she stared quite seriously into the camera. Although Kurt was unfamiliar with British service vestments, he’d bet anything that was the uniform of the Royal Marines she was wearing.

He picked up the frame and turned it to show Sherlock. “Your daughter is in the military?” Kurt asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “She idolized her father. Neither he nor I were happy about the decision at first, especially not with the chance of her being deployed to a war zone or blown up by terrorists so high. But he eventually came around. He was very proud of her.”

“They were close, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Very much so. Although Tara resembles me in looks, she was always her father’s daughter.  That is, until all this happened. She hasn’t spoken to him since his arrest. Now that I think about it, she seemed a bit chilly towards him even before that. I remember he asked her about it, but she denied anything was wrong.”

“And she was here with you the night of the murder?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” he pressed. “Were you together the whole time?”

“Just what are you implying, Mr Holmes?” she bristled and stiffened her back, her defences fully triggered and at the ready.

Kurt stepped in to try and diffuse the situation. “We just need to know the truth in order to help your husband,” he said.

“The truth?” she said with a brittle laugh. “The truth is my husband made his bed, and now he must lie in it.”

“You believe he did it, then?” Sherlock asked.

Her shoulders sagged and she shook her head slowly and sadly. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said. “I know this must be very difficult for you.”

“You have no idea what this has done to our family…to Douglas’ career…our good name.”   

“Don’t worry, Evie,” Freddy interjected. “We’ll clear all that up. It’s what Mr Holmes and Mr Wallander are here for.”

Sherlock shot him a glare, then quickly turned and smiled at Mrs Majors – that genuinely disingenuous smile of his – and said, “Of course. We’ve troubled you enough. I think we have all we came for.”

They walked to the door of the study and Sherlock let her pass in front of him with an “After you” and a sweep of his arm. Kurt saw him hone in and pick something lightly from the back of her dress without her noticing. He held the something up to examine it, and smiled a genuinely genuine smile before following her out.

***

Freddy dropped them off at their hotel with a good-natured farewell that Sherlock pointedly ignored. Sherlock led Kurt up to a suite on the seventh floor after grudgingly allowing him to stop for a sandwich and coffee on the way. He opened the door to room 710. Kurt followed him in and gave a low whistle.

“I believe this is what you Brits would call ‘pretty posh’.”

“Posh indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “You don’t even want to know what the daily rate is.”

Kurt settled himself on a small sofa and tucked in to his sandwich while Sherlock stood near the windows adjoining the balcony door.

“I take it Majors is footing the bill for you setting up camp here?” Kurt said

“Of course! I needed access to the crime scene.” Sherlock gazed for a few moments out at a bright blue and cloudless sky. He turned suddenly and said, “Well Inspector, what do you think?”

“I think this case isn’t nearly as tidy as the local police and prosecution would like to think.”

“And what did you think of Mrs Majors?”

“I don’t think she was entirely truthful. People like that – they’ll go to great lengths to save face, show the world that the happy idyllic life everyone else sees is actually real.”

Sherlock left the window and began to pace. “She intends to divorce him, whatever the outcome.”

“How do you know?”

“I noticed correspondence on a table near the front door addressed from her other solicitor, whom I’m sure dear Freddy knows nothing about. I recognized the name – high priced divorce lawyer from London. Also, she’s having an affair herself.”

“And how do you know _that_?”

 “Dogs.”

“I didn’t see any…oh!” Kurt finally made the connection. “So she and the aide may have a motive, but only he has military training.”

“And the daughter, Tara,” Sherlock said.

Kurt nodded. “Yes, but we still haven’t ruled out Majors himself having done it.”

“Quite right. I’ll text Lestrade.”


	5. Chapter 5

Greg waited until Sherlock and his new best friend were out of sight before letting out a frustrated growl and punching the steering wheel.  He sat quietly fuming for a few moments, trying to calm down lest he take out his rage on some other unsuspecting driver.

It wasn’t jealously that had caused the outburst – not really. Kurt certainly seemed smitten with Sherlock’s abilities, but he could understand that; he’d been there himself once upon a time. Five years of dealing with the man’s more irritating qualities had tempered Greg’s enthusiasm for being around him, but his respect for Sherlock’s talent and skills never waned. No, he didn’t grudge Kurt the opportunity to observe Sherlock’s methods up close and personal. It was more just the continued intrusion on their weekend, not to mention being made the trio’s errand boy, that got on his wick. Still being horny as hell after their chaste little tumble that morning probably didn’t help, either.

After a few more moments, he pulled up Sherlock’s last message on his mobile.

-          _Silk scarf or fabric square, black or navy blue_

-          _Eye shades_

-          _Ear plugs_

Those shouldn’t be too difficult to find; there were plenty of shops in town catering to travellers that ought to have them.

-          _Knife: double edged, fixed blade, 6”_

-          _Pork belly: large cut, min. 12”X12”, room temp_

So he’s looking to do stab wound tests on a human analogue, then. Greg was surprised he didn’t order up an actual corpse for the occasion.

-          _Rope: 100 ft, 3/8” braided nylon_

-          _Bandage scissors_

Greg felt a familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. Just how far did Sherlock mean to take this experiment, anyway? And who was to be the guinea pig? He tried not to think about it as he put the car in gear and pulled away, mostly because he already had a sense of the answer.

“Ever the good soldier,” he muttered to himself. “Likely to get me shot in the arse one day.”

***

Greg spent the better part of the morning running around on the scavenger hunt Sherlock had set for him. He hit several clothing shops and a chemist in Cardiff Bay, but had to venture into Cardiff proper to find a butcher and a hardware shop, paying cash for everything so as not to leave a paper trail. It really wouldn’t do for him to be seen getting involved with this, especially trying to prove the defence’s case.

When he returned to the hotel, he dropped all of the bags but the one containing the meat on the floor near the door. The pork belly went bag and all into the bath, just in case of leaks. He sat down on the edge of the bed but was soon up again, restless and pacing. It was getting on towards noon and hunger had begun to gnaw on the edges of his nerves. Fishing his mobile from his pocket, he rang Kurt up but only got his answerphone. He left no message. 

Eventually he headed down to the hotel restaurant and had lunch on his own. As he ate, his mind wandered over the facts of the case in spite of himself. The cause of death was a strategic knife wound to the abdomen – an upward thrust that pierced her aorta, leaving her to bleed out relatively quickly.  It was therefore highly likely the killer had a military background, so Majors or  his aide were candidates. Majors didn’t seem to have a motive, though. He’d had an on-going relationship with the victim, why just up and kill her one day? Unless she were going to leave him, or perhaps blackmail him? He’d seen no evidence of either of those things in the case file, though the police and prosecution had put them forward as possibilities which Majors himself denied. The aide had the ability to kill her but no motive. And the wife had a motive – his infidelity – but not the ability. Greg couldn’t get anywhere without more information. Hopefully the interviews Kurt and Sherlock were conducting would shed more light on the case.

Once back in his room, he tried Kurt’s number again without success. He tossed the mobile on the bedside table, kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the bed, and turned the telly on.

A few hours later, an insistent buzzing and rattle of plastic on wood woke him from a nap he hadn’t meant to take.

_Bring items to suite 710. -SH_

He set the mobile on the bed next to him and closed his eyes again until the next time it buzzed, not three minutes later.

_Now._

Greg gritted his teeth and let out a wordless growl of frustration before getting up and putting his shoes on. He gathered the items he’d bought earlier and headed up to the seventh floor. The door to 710 was ajar and he could hear Sherlock and Kurt’s voices in low and earnest conversation as he approached. He shoved open the door with his shoulder and went in.

The suite was furnished in a modern style similar to their own small room, just a bit grander and about three times the size. Kurt was seated on a small sofa in the spacious sitting room, with Sherlock pacing the floor in front of him. How long had they been up here, anyway, being all chummy together? Well, as far as Sherlock could ever be chummy with anyone.  They chattered on, sharing observations about the case, barely sparing him a glance as he walked in. Annoyance tugged his lip into a sneer and he dropped the bags unceremoniously onto the floor in front of Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks.

“Ah, Lestrade, good. We can finally begin.”

“Sorry, was I holding you up?”

“Yes, but no matter.” Sherlock didn’t let on he’d noted the sarcastic tone Greg had taken. “Now that you’re here, let’s walk through the events of the night in question, shall we?”

“So this is the actual crime scene, yeah?” Greg looked around the room and his eyes fell on a leather valise spilling its contents of clothing and toiletries onto the chair across from the sofa, Sherlock’s laptop on the desk by the windows, and case files strewn about in piles on the floor. All part of Sherlock’s unique filing system, no doubt.

“Hang on!” he said. “Is this your room, then?”

“Yes, I specifically requested it. They’ve replaced the carpet and mattress, so no chance of finding anything the police may have missed. But I thought it important for the re-enactment.”

“Of course, please do continue,” Greg said with a mock bow.

“Right. So assuming the perpetrator is not Majors, we begin here at the door,” Sherlock said, walking over to the door that Greg had entered through. “There was no forced entry, so whoever it was either had access to a key card or was let in. If the former, Ms Evans would have been unaware of them until right before she was stabbed in the bedroom. If the latter, they would have had to overpower her and drag her through here and into the bedroom to stab her.” As he said this, he swept through the sitting room and into the bedroom while mimicking dragging a shorter person along with a hand over their mouth.

Kurt helped Greg gather up the bags and they followed Sherlock into the bedroom. An enormous bed, neatly made, was set against the wall to their left. The room was lit by two brushed silver lamps on either side of the bed. No light came through the closed curtains, which most likely hid another balcony and an even more spectacular view than theirs.

“Or the third possibility,” Kurt offered, taking his as well as Greg’s parcels and setting them on a long chest of drawers opposite the foot of the bed. “This person was known and trusted by her, and was expected to join them in the bedroom.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock replied, circling around the end of the bed and back, then contemplating the area between bed and door as if calculating something. “We have not entirely ruled out any of these. Ms Evans was rather petite, but also fairly aggressive in her personality. She may have been easily overpowered by a large male, but she would have put up quite a fight and would not have gone quietly. Majors heard no sounds of a struggle. I can verify through previous experiments that the ear plugs would have muted the sounds but would not entirely have blocked them out. I can’t sufficiently account for the effects of sub space on his awareness.”

“What’s sub space?” Greg asked. Sherlock, now busy inventorying the items from the bags and lining them up on top of the chest of drawers in preparation for use, ignored the question.

“Altered state of consciousness brought about by endorphins in the brain after…rough play,” Kurt said. “He explained it to me earlier,” he offered in answer to the look Greg gave him.

“Right, so what about the other theories?” Greg was annoyed at having to be brought up to speed since he missed out on the interviews and the debriefing, but he was happy to keep the conversation going, if only to put off the inevitable for a while longer.

“Majors denies that anyone else was invited to join them, although they were known to play with a third on occasion.” Having organized his experimental implements, Sherlock re-joined the conversation. “I’m looking into his whereabouts on the night in question, but Majors hasn’t been forthcoming on details about him, as you can imagine.”

“Another conservative closet case. What’s new?” Greg said. He caught a disapproving scowl from Kurt and immediately regretted his words. “So it’s possible, but not likely, that she let either a stranger or a friend in. That leaves someone with a key card, yeah?”

“Precisely. Both Majors and Ms Evans had cards, and of course the hotel staff would have access to the room. All staff were interviewed and accounted for. The local police were at least thorough in that regard.”

“But we can’t exactly account for Majors’ card,” Kurt said. “He said it was in his wallet and it was found there when the police inventoried his belongings, but he didn’t use it to enter the room; Ms Evans let him in. And there was a latent print on the card that didn’t match Majors or any of the staff.”

“Well, that sounds like a lead that needs following up on,” Greg said.

“Yes, but this is all assuming there was a third party involved,” Sherlock said. We haven’t entirely ruled out the possibility of Majors having committed the crime himself. We need to account for all of the forensic evidence that was found on him and the murder weapon – either by providing plausible alternate explanations or confirming what the police and prosecutors have alleged.”

Greg steeled himself and jumped in. “Right, so now we’ve come down to it. Who gets to be Majors in your little panto?”

“That would be you.”

“Like hell it would.” Even though Greg had foreseen this quite clearly, he had no intention of giving in without a fight. He still had some hope of dissuading Sherlock – not that he’d ever had much luck with that in the past. Once the irresistible force that was Sherlock’s mind had settled on a course of action, you either came along for the ride or got caught under the tyres.

“It’s only logical,” Sherlock replied, unperturbed. “You’re closest in height and build. I’m too tall and Inspector Wallander is too short.”

“And I’m just right. Okay Goldilocks, I get it,” Greg said in the surliest tone he could muster. “But does a few inches really matter one way or the other?”

“Yes. It has to be you,” Sherlock said, turning and grabbing the coil of rope from off the chest of drawers. “Now if you’ll just remove your clothes…”

“Oh come on!”

“Lestrade! This experiment is vitally important. I need to know what the man’s range of motion would have been, and if he could have placed the knife where it was found.”

Greg looked at Kurt to try to find an ally, but Kurt only shrugged. “It does seem the only way to be sure.”

“Oh, not you as well!” It was a foregone conclusion that he would give in; he always did. That didn’t stop him from being disappointed that Kurt didn’t back him up on this, though. Greg thought ruefully it might be payback for his unfortunate closet case comment. Kurt threw his hands up in a “don’t blame me” sort of gesture, and Greg shook his head and addressed Sherlock again.

“Fine. But I don’t really need to get naked, do I?” he asked.

“I need to replicate the ties exactly,” Sherlock replied. “That means I need access to your penis…”

“All right all right,” Greg interrupted him, throwing one hand up as if to ward off the offending information. The whole business was making him nervous and sick. He turned on Kurt.  “And what will you be doing?” he asked. “Besides providing him an audience, I mean?”

“I could leave if you’d be more comfortable,” Kurt said.

“Yeah, do that please,” Greg snapped.

Greg waited until he heard Kurt leave through the outer door to go back to their room before he began unbuttoning his shirt.  He folded each item neatly and placed them on a chair near the drawn curtains. Once he was down to his boxers he stood waiting, arms folded in front of him with what he hoped was a withering scowl on his face. Not that Sherlock would care; he’d certainly note his test subject’s displeasure, but the scientist hardly considers the rat’s feelings after all.

Sherlock was now engrossed in measuring out and cutting the rope into twenty-five foot lengths to make it easier to work with, then using a cigarette lighter to seal the ends and keep them from fraying.

“Where do you want me, then?” Greg asked gruffly.

Sherlock waved a hand without looking at him. “On the bed, please. And kneel.”

Greg did as he was told, stepping out of his boxers before positioning himself on the bed. Sherlock’s hands were surprisingly warm as he wrapped the coils of rope around Greg’s torso and arms, tugging here, smoothing there, and diligently crafting a series of complicated knots down the centre of Greg’s chest. He’d half expected the man’s skin to reflect the clinical coldness of his demeanour, but the feel of Sherlock’s hands and the soft glide of the rope over his bare skin were almost soothing. That is, until he realized with growing horror that his enjoyment was starting to show.

Sherlock shot a glance at his face then continued focusing on the knots. “Calm yourself, Lestrade. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What?”

“You’re arousal. It’s a perfectly normal physiological reaction, I wouldn’t…”

“Sherlock! That’s not helping.”

“Well, what would help?”

“You shutting the fuck up about it, that’s what.”

Sherlock said nothing as he shoved Greg over onto his back, pushing his ankles up so that his knees were bent. He continued in silence, but even that started getting to Greg. He was antsy, and needed to get his mind off the increasing restrictions to his body as Sherlock started tying his legs.

“I don’t really think I want the answer, but I’ll ask anyway,” Greg said, examining the smooth plaster of the ceiling. “How do you know how to tie someone up like this?”

“I have a significant working knowledge of knots and rope-work, plus the pictures from the crime scene for reference,” Sherlock replied. Then after an almost imperceptible pause, “Also, I bartered with John to be allowed to practice on him.”

“Ha!” Greg barked out a laugh. “I hope poor Mrs Hudson didn’t walk in on that scene.”

A quick half-smile flitted across Sherlock’s face. “I don’t think you give her enough credit. There isn’t much that would surprise or fluster our Mrs Hudson. Besides, John wouldn’t take his pants off.”

“Hmm…I guess she must have seen a thing or two with that husband of hers. Not to mention having you as a lodger,” Greg mused. “So, what did you barter with John for it?”

“I have to do the shopping and refrain from playing my violin past midnight, and anytime I ask him to do anything I must append ‘Oh Captain, my Captain’ to the request. For a month.”

Greg cocked his head and stared at him. “And you’re going to make good on that?”

“Of course! I will do anything I have to if it means getting the information I need.”

“Oh! So what are you willing to do for me in exchange for this, then?”

“Nothing. If you had wanted something from me, the time to negotiate for it was before I tied you up.”

The urge to knock Sherlock’s head in took him over. He struggled to kick out but his legs were already securely tied. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!” was the best he could manage.

Sherlock actually smiled at that – a broad and guileless smile that Greg couldn’t help returning in spite of his anger. He shook his head and muttered, “Fucking wanker. At the least I’ll be sending you a bill for expenses.”

“Of course. Give it to John, he’ll see to it.” He completed the final knot to secure Greg’s ankles, then helped haul him back up onto his knees. He put the finishing touches on by lashing Greg’s wrists to the front of the rope harness at the level of his hips.

“Now for the blindfold. We’ll forgo the ear plugs, I think. I’ll need you to take direction.”

“Brilliant. Can we just get this over with?”

Sherlock nodded and placed the eyeshades on him, then placed the scarf over the top and tied it securely at the back of his head. Greg could see nothing at all; not so much as a glimmer of light made its way through the double layer of fabric. He felt the cold hilt of the knife as Sherlock pressed it into his right hand.

“Ms Evans was five foot three, which would have put her lower abdomen about three inches above the bed. I’m going to hold the target at that level directly in front of your hand. Now see if you can stab it.”

Greg spent a few moments testing his ability to move, shifting his weight this way and that, pulling the ropes at his wrists taught. There wasn’t much give to it at all, though he could move his wrists back and forth slightly. He tried shifting his weight to the left and pivoting the entire right side of his body into the meat. By the feel of it, the knife point had barely made a gauge in the skin.

“Good! Again,” Sherlock commanded.

Greg repeated the motion a few times without causing much more damage.

“All right, this time pivot up onto your knees and fall into the target with all your weight.”

“If I do that I’ll take a header right off the bed!” Greg objected.

“I’ll catch you Lestrade. Just do it.”

For all of Sherlock’s faults, Greg did actually trust him. He rocked up onto his knees and let the momentum carry him forward. He felt the knife sink into the slab of meat further than it had before. Sherlock, good to his word, caught him by the shoulder with one hand and pushed him back before he could fall over. Once Greg’s position was stabilized, Sherlock let go of him and examined the wound.

“Hmm. It’s deep enough, but the angle is all wrong.”

“Well that settles it, then. Can you let me out of this now?”

“That settles one question; another remains. The knife was found under the bed, approximately ten inches from this corner,” Sherlock said, patting the corner at the foot of the bed to Greg’s right. “We’ll begin with the drop tests, I think.”

Greg shimmied up to the edge of the bed and tossed the knife as hard as his restricted motion allowed. Sherlock had him repeat the test again and again, sometimes just letting the knife drop from his hand, others exerting varying levels of force.  Sherlock noted aloud the position of every fall. Occasionally the knife would bounce under the bed, but not by much. When he was apparently satisfied with the data set he’d collected, he tapped Greg lightly on the arm.

“One last thing, Lestrade, and your ordeal will be over. I’m going to leave the knife on the floor. See if you can come down off the bed, find it and put it into position, and get back onto the bed.”

“Easier said than done, mate,” Greg muttered, not at all liking the idea of a blind fall with no way to break it, even if it were only a few feet down. He lay down on his side and inched closer to the edge, hesitating once he could feel pending drop off.

 “Come on, come on!” Sherlock prompted, his voice terse and impatient.

“You could give us a hand, you know.”

“No, I can’t. The whole point of this exercise is to see if you’re capable of doing it on your own without assistance. And to note any injuries you receive and see if they are consistent with Majors’.”

“Injuries? So you expect me to hurt myself? Whatever happened to experimental ethics and informed consent? I didn’t sign up for injuries.”

“Bumps and bruises, Lestrade, nothing more than that. You’ll have seen worse playing football at the weekend.”

Greg tried to steel himself against the impending pain. He made a few aborted attempts to slide off the bed knees-first, but pulled himself back each time before he could slip over. Sherlock had remained quiet throughout, and a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to Greg.

“I swear to God, Sherlock, if you’re videotaping this I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Of course I’m not – it would hardly be admissible in court in any case,” Sherlock replied. “But if I did, I’d be sure to edit out any identifying features.”

“Sherlock!”

“Joking, Lestrade.”

Greg snorted. “You don’t joke.”

“Just because you are too obtuse to understand my jokes doesn’t mean I don’t make them.”

“Do you really think you ought to be calling me stupid when I’ve agreed to help you out? This is just about the definition of above and beyond the call of duty, this is.”

“Well, you were stupid enough not to negotiate a trade in kind before you agreed to do it.”

Greg let out a wordless snarl of anger and started straining and fighting against the ropes. Anger quickly turned to panic as the ropes bit into his skin and held fast. It almost felt like drowning, and he gasped for air as his body involuntarily writhed and struggled. Warm, strong hands grasped his upper arms and held him still. They were welcome anchors in the dark, and slowly the feeling of suffocation subsided.

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock asked.

Greg took a moment to let his breathing even out before replying. “Yeah, I’m done. But just remember, I’m not going to be tied up forever.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s tone betrayed that he thought Greg’s threat a hollow one. And if Greg were being honest with himself, it probably was just a bit of bluster to cover for his less than manly performance of a moment ago. “Let’s try this once more. You might be able to use the bedside table as a point of leverage to get down.”

It wasn’t a great suggestion. In his haste to put that little panic attack behind him, Greg quickly rolled over to where he thought the bedside table was, but having become disoriented during his struggles he wound up catching only air. He landed on the floor with a resounding thud, bearing the brunt of it on his left shoulder and knee.

“Ah, fuck!” He lay there moaning until he felt the point of Sherlock’s shoe nudge him in the thigh.

“Turn around, head towards me.”

Greg followed Sherlock’s voice, inching his way along the floor on his back, one knee brushing the side of the bed for guidance, until his shoulder brushed the cold metal of the knife. He turned over until he was able to grasp the hilt in his teeth, then wriggled forward and rolled under the bed until Sherlock told him to stop. He dropped the knife and rolled back out again.

It took him a few moments to struggle up onto his knees. He pressed his forehead into the mattress and his body into the side of the bed, trying to get back up. When that didn’t work he sort of hop-shimmied along on his knees until he bumped into the bedside table. He tried wedging himself in between that and the bed to somehow find the leverage to haul himself up, grunting and straining with the effort. It was hard enough work that he barely even registered how humiliating the whole thing was. He was breathing hard and sweat was beading up on his forehead and the back of his neck, but there was just no way he could get onto the bed again.

“Sorry mate, no go,” he panted.

“Yes, thank you Lestrade. That’ll do.” Greg heard him tapping a message on his mobile as his footsteps moved away.

“Sherlock?”

He heard the outer door open and close.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, knowing it was futile. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this? Maybe he could find the knife again and cut himself loose. Or he could gnaw his way through like a bloody squirrel. He slumped down as far as the ropes would allow, his head suddenly heavy in a deep fog. Whatever…he’d figure it out; he just needed a bit of a rest first. His chin dipped down towards his chest, and he gave himself over to the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Back in their room, Kurt was restless. He’d switched the telly on as soon as he walked in but couldn’t sit still to focus on it. He tried shuffling through the case file again, going over all the known points of the case thus far. There were a pen and a pad of paper on the desk – courtesy of the hotel – and he sat himself down and made a half-hearted attempt at listing the facts.

_Evidence:_

-          _Blood on knife = victim’s, other DNA = Majors_

-          _Only victim’s prints recovered from knife_

-          _Blood spatter on Majors = victim’s_

-          _Unknown print on key card – someone who had access to Majors’ wallet – wife? Daughter? Smart?_

_Suspect:_

-          _May or may not have been known to victim_

-          _Likely military background (Majors, Smart, daughter – rules out wife/unknown male)_

-          _Motive = jealousy? or?_

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He threw the pen down and leaned back in the chair. It had been nearly an hour. What were they doing up there all this time? Of course, he could well imagine, and it tripped his guilt button terribly. He knew Greg had been loath to participate, but he’d caved to his and Sherlock’s badgering. Well, perhaps badgering was too strong a word. He could have refused, after all. He was an adult.

Still, they should have been done by now, shouldn’t they? He was tired of being on his own, so he switched off the telly and headed out the door. As he walked down the corridor to the suite, he saw Sherlock coming towards him. He held up a key card and passed it to him without stopping.

“Take care of him,” he said, and disappeared behind the lift door.

Well that sounded ominous. Kurt hurried along the corridor, unsure of what he would find when he opened the door to the suite. No one was in the sitting room, so he went into the bedroom. He stopped dead in his tracks, a noise of surprise – and something else – caught in his throat. There in front of him was Greg, trussed up neatly in an elaborate web of rope, kneeling in front of the bed with his head bowed. Although they were alone, Kurt looked guiltily around before compulsively closing and locking the bedroom door.

He walked over to the bed and stopped a few paces away, just taking in the sight of him for a minute. Then he walked around to the side. Greg tilted his head and followed his movements, but he remained silent. Kurt toed off his shoes and noticed Greg’s cock twitch at the sound. He felt a responding twitch in his own pants and realised he was not quite ready to help Greg out of his predicament. Not just yet, anyway.

Kurt reached out a trembling hand and brushed Greg’s lower lip with his fingertips. Greg’s lips parted readily, and Kurt slid one finger into his mouth, then another. Greg accepted them without protest, and began licking and sucking as Kurt moved them gently in and out. Kurt paused for a moment before shoving all four fingers into his mouth and hooking his thumb under Greg’s chin. Grasping and holding his jaw, he moved Greg’s head from side to side, testing the limits of his tolerance and pliability. Amazingly enough, he still made no protest apart from gagging slightly.

Kurt withdrew his hand and wiped the spit off on his trouser leg, then undid his zip and pulled his clothing down only just enough to expose his hardening cock. He buried one hand in Greg’s hair to hold his head steady, and with the other he pressed his cock against Greg’s face, rubbing it slowly down his nose, across his lips, along the angle of his jaw. Greg’s lips parted again in invitation, but Kurt wasn’t ready to accept it yet. He tightened his hold on Greg’s hair and pulled him into his groin, until Greg’s nose was buried in the wiry thatch of hair there, his now fully-erect cock brushing against Greg’s cheek.  Greg moaned and nuzzled into him and Kurt couldn’t wait anymore. He pulled hard on Greg’s hair, forcing his head back and shoving his cock into Greg’s open mouth.

Greg gagged and struggled but Kurt held him firm, pulling back a bit to make him more comfortable. He kept hold of Greg’s hair, guiding him forward and back until he nearly lost himself. He let go and stepped back quickly, breathing hard. After a moment he bent down and worked his fingers under the ropes covering Greg’s chest, grabbing hold of them and hoisting him up onto the bed with a loud grunt. Kurt stepped out of trousers and pants, not even bothering to remove his shirt, then climbed onto the bed and straddled Greg’s head. 

He placed his hands on either side of Greg’s face and fucked his mouth, just fucked it, heedless of everything now but his own consuming pleasure. When he felt himself about to tumble over the edge, he pulled out in time to shoot all over Greg’s face, his mouth, the blindfold.

He slumped over and rested his head on the bed, trying to catch his breath. Once he had recovered a bit he sat back on his heels and ran his hands all over the ropes, but not untying them, not yet, just feeling to make sure Greg’s skin wasn’t cold anywhere and the ropes weren’t too tight. Sherlock had done a masterful job of it – the ropes had remained secure but not strangling.

Kurt looked down to see that Greg’s cock was an almost alarming shade of purple; the ropes wound around it had tightened as his erection grew. He looked painfully aroused now. Kurt brushed the back of his hand up the length of the shaft, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a sudden, violent squirm. Of course the right thing to do would be to ease Greg’s discomfort relatively quickly, but a more wickedly sadistic thought won out instead. He teased Greg lightly with just the tips of his fingers playing upon the most sensitive spots, until Greg’s back was arching and he was straining against the ropes and he uttered the first word between them since Kurt had entered the room – _Please –_ and Kurt didn’t know what he was asking for – please stop, please harder, please let me come. When Greg’s pleading receded into wordless whimpering, Kurt wrapped his fist around him and pumped until finally Greg succumbed in a noisy climax.

Kurt watched the slow ebb of his lover’s pleasure in awe. The heaving chest, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, captured his attention like nothing else ever had. Once Greg had settled down, Kurt finally tore himself away to wash up. He brought a warm, wet flannel and a dry towel to clean Greg off, and then used the bandage scissors he found to cut off the ropes. It would have taken far too long to try to undo all those knots, and Kurt would have hardly known where to even begin anyway. As each limb came loose he rubbed and massaged it – shoulders to fingers, hips to toes.

Finally, he removed the coverings from Greg’s eyes, first the blindfold then the shades. Greg blinked a few times in the sudden light before looking up at him and flashing such a brilliant smile it nearly took his breath.

“You did know it was me from the beginning, right?” Kurt said when he could find his voice again.

“Of course,” Greg laughed and nuzzled into his chest. “I recognized the tread of your feet…and the sound of your breathing…and your scent.”

He ran his fingers through Greg’s hair gently now, in contrast to the rough treatment he’d given it earlier. He was appalled with himself, though judging by the contented look on Greg’s face he didn’t seem to mind.

“Did you…enjoy that?” Kurt asked.

Greg gave a low chuckle. “I thought that would have been obvious.”

“Well, yes, but…I wasn’t too…I don’t know…forceful?”

Greg lifted his head and gazed up at him.

“No, I liked it.” He said it simply, directly. He searched Kurt’s face for a moment. “I liked it,” he said again, perhaps trying to smooth away the doubt and guilt Kurt suspected was writ all over him. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, that’s what troubles me.”

Greg laughed again. “Why? Because you’ve got a bit of a sadistic streak in you? You like to control and have things your own way? Colour me shocked.”

“So what, you think I’m a selfish arsehole is that it?” Kurt snapped, not quite seeing the humour.

Greg’s smile faded to serious. “Would you have stopped if I told you to?”

“Of course!”

“Then there’s no problem. You’re not a selfish arsehole; you just like a bit of spice, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s news to me.”

“You mean I taught an old dog a new trick? Fancy that.” Greg grinned and laid his head back down, tracing a finger through the hair on Kurt’s chest. “So, you want to do that again sometime?”

“God, yes.” He pulled Greg up and kissed him. They were interrupted by the chiming of Kurt’s mobile.

“Oh, leave it!” Greg complained, but Kurt was already out of bed and picking his trousers up off the floor to search through the pockets. He came back to the bed and read the text message that had come in.

_Case all but resolved. Feel free to stay in the suite and keep the car through Monday am. It’s all in Greg’s name anyway. - SH_

“Fucking tosser,” Greg grumbled when Kurt showed him the message.

“Oh now don’t be like that,” Kurt chided. “It’s nice to be able to revel in a bit of luxury. Although I think we can do without the car. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t intend to leave this room for the rest of the weekend.”

“Whatever you say, Inspector,” Greg said, settling in to Kurt’s embrace. “I guess it’s room service tonight, then. Ready for some supper?”

“In a bit,” Kurt said, and pulled him into another kiss.


	7. Epilogue

“So it was his daughter, then?” Greg said. They were back in London, having returned from Cardiff late that morning. At Kurt’s insistence they had stopped by 221B before heading out to the airport so that Sherlock could fill them in on all the missing pieces of the case. “When did you suspect?”

Sherlock leaned back in the desk chair, fingertips of both hands pressed together. He regarded his two visitors sitting on the sofa with an air of resigned boredom, but Greg knew he never really tired of explaining his own cleverness, despite his claims to the contrary.

“I’ll admit my suspicions immediately went to Smart, the aide, but our interview with Mrs Majors was very illuminating.”

“You didn’t talk to the daughter then?”

“No, she had already returned to her base and would have been shipped out by the end of the week had the court not ordered a stay. It was Inspector Wallander who drew my attention to the picture of her on Majors’ desk.”

“She was in uniform, Royal Marines. Seems she followed in her father’s footsteps.” Kurt said.

“And the local police failed to mention her military background in their interviews. Once they finally ran the unknown print on the card against the military’s biometric database, they had a match. A review of the security footage also showed her entering the lobby just minutes before the murder.”

“Why did nobody notice that before?”

“They weren’t looking for her.”

“So Majors is free?”

“No, but he will be, pending bureaucratic hurdles. The defence’s motion to delay the trial due to discovery of new evidence was granted. I’ve been informed by Majors’ solicitor that the daughter is in custody and has made a full confession. She revealed that Mr Smart was with her mother that night. That’s how she was able to leave and come back without being noticed. So they both had alibis, just not the ones they claimed.”

“But why did she do it?” Greg asked. “I thought you said she was close to her father. Why would she try to ruin him like that?”

“Care to take a guess, Inspector Wallander?”

“Perhaps,” Kurt said, speaking slowly. “Perhaps it was because she _was_ close to him. She looked up to him, respected him, and he let her down.”

Sherlock smiled. “Very good, Inspector. She was her daddy’s little girl, and she did not take kindly to his extracurricular activities when she found out about them. She blamed him for cheating on her mother and for the fact that their marriage was not likely to survive, despite Mrs Majors’ claims to the contrary. She considered his predilections perverse and unmanly, and was enraged that the person she had looked up to all her life as a pillar of strength and integrity, the person she had modelled her own life after so closely, could enjoy being controlled and utterly helpless in his off hours.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Well, I think that’s enough to satisfy our curiosity. We’d better be going.” 

They stood to go. Sherlock remained seated as Kurt gathered up his jacket and travel case.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Inspector Wallander,” Sherlock said.

“Likewise, Mr Holmes. I don’t suppose you’d mind if I consulted you in the future?”

“Not at all. You have my card and Lestrade always knows where to find me, unless I’m trying not to be found.”

Kurt walked over to him and shook Sherlock’s hand, and then made his way out into the hall. Greg turned and followed, but just as he reached the door Sherlock called after him.

“You did manage to surprise me, Lestrade.”

Greg turned around in the doorway; Kurt’s footsteps could already be heard on the stairs. “Oh yeah? How so?”

“I didn’t think you went for blonds.”

“Is that you making a joke?”

“Yes. Funny?”

“Very nearly. Let’s just keep that little observation between us, all right?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to say, _suit yourself_ , then turned and opened the laptop that was on the desk in front of him.

***

Greg joined Kurt outside just as he had flagged down a taxi. They didn’t talk much on the way to the airport, though this time it was a comfortable, familiar silence that they shared. When they arrived, Greg paid the fare and accompanied Kurt inside.  There was some time before Kurt’s plane boarded, so they loitered in a corner of a waiting area just outside the security checkpoint.

Greg leaned with his back against the wall, hands in pockets. He looked down at the garish carpet and traced the pattern with his toe. When he looked up, he caught Kurt staring thoughtfully at him. 

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” Kurt asked.

“What? The weekend, you mean?” Greg replied, and Kurt nodded. “Nah. Well, there were parts I could have done without, but none of them had to do with you.”

“You’re lucky to have him as a resource, you know. I could have used him on any number of cases over the past few years.”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg said, eager to get away from the subject of Sherlock. “So, you had a good time, then? Glad you came, even though you didn’t get to see as much of London as I’d promised?”

“Of course! I don’t really care about London; I came here to see you. The where of it doesn’t matter.” Kurt paused, and his gaze wandered up and off to the right. “You make me feel like a ruddy teenager again, you know.”

“Because I make you horny?” Greg stuck his tongue out between his teeth and waggled his eyebrows. Christ, was he fifteen years old again himself?

Kurt scowled at him, but it was half-hearted at best. “Nooo,” he replied with a mocking lilt to his voice. “Well, yes,” he amended. “But it’s more the fear of getting caught, I suppose.”

“We very nearly were, last time.”

Kurt winced. “Don’t remind me!”

“Did she suspect?”

“No, Linda hasn’t said anything to me so I think the secret’s safe. At least, on my end.” He gave Greg a hard look, softened with a half-smile.

“Sherlock won’t blab. I have enough to hold over his head to keep him quiet. Besides, the only people here that matter are my team, and he’s not exactly on friendly gossip terms with them.”

They fell into silence again for a few minutes, until finally Kurt looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better go.”

“Right.”

They stood for an awkward moment, not quite sure how to make this parting. Kurt stuck out his hand. Damn Swedes and their personal space issues. They were even worse than the English, though Greg’s affectionate nature had always made him an outlier in that regard. He grasped Kurt’s hand as if to shake it, then pulled him into a hug.

Kurt didn’t resist. In fact, he held the embrace for longer than Greg expected, and murmured into his ear, “When are you coming to Sweden again?”

“I’ll see when I can swing the time off,” Greg answered.

They did the _just-two-old-chums-hugging-nothing-to-see-here_ back patting, and then parted. Greg watched as Kurt made his way through the security checkpoint and disappeared into the corridor beyond. He was already mentally sifting through his schedule and calculating his remaining leave before he was inside the taxi on his way home.

****


End file.
